


America's Sweetheart, tryin' to get away

by Wallissa



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Dubious Consent, Hannibal is Hannibal, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Poor Will, Road Trip from/to Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 19:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13597080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: On the run from the Police, Hannibal and Will are on a Road Trip to Italy (or so Will assumes). During the endless hours and days on the road, trapped in a car with a monster, Will is slowly losing time and himself in a dreamy-feverish swirl of half-thoughts.





	America's Sweetheart, tryin' to get away

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe you'd like to give "Afraid" by Lana del Rey a listen while (/after/before) reading? The energy of that song was what inspired this idea in the first place, even though it's a bit more hopeful than what happened here, I suppose.

And it's spring, the road is endless, endless against the sky. Cotton and dread on his tongue, Will rests his forehead against the window and watches the grey sky, the muddy fields, and miles and days and Bach blur together in the drug induced haze. It's either that or he's really losing it, and Will doesn't dare ask Hannibal, he just eats the odd-tasting meals and hopes. 

Maybe it’s not – and Will has thought that often, when Hannibal had watched him patiently until Will had picked up his fork – maybe it’s not drugs. Because how would Hannibal do that, sneak something into chain restaurant meals. But that – and that’s another thing Will has thought about, under Hannibal’s gaze, as he lifted his fork – is probably what Hannibal wants him to think. And if there’s one thing Will has learned – sticky honey gluing his chapped lips together for barely a second – is that Hannibal will always find a way. So it might be drugs that make Will’s legs unsteady as they walk back to the car, too unsteady to think about- about anything, really, with Hannibal’s palm warm and heavy between his shoulder blades. 

The car is the fixed axis now, and the world is rushing by too fast for Will to concentrate on, eyes heavy, honey and cream still a memory on his tongue, lips cracked open. Hannibal probably took his weapon, he took just about everything. Will doesn't even remember when he held a pencil for the last time. On the other hand, these days he isn't so sure if he would know what to do with a pencil anyways. When Hannibal leaves the car and he hears the click clack of the locks and can breathe again, world locked out, save behind glass, a part in Will’s brain lights up with nauseating urgency, to call out, to find a pen, a piece of paper, anything, and during those moments, he thinks he knows what he can use a pen for. He thinks of ink staining his fingertips, ink or blood. But then he sees Hannibal as he leaves the store, or the gas station, or the gates of hell for all Will knows, and it’s all gone. 

On days like this, he thinks that maybe Hannibal doesn’t need to drug his food, maybe the drug comes from him himself, like the scent of a flower, numbing Will’s senses and making him still, docile in terror that tastes like white chocolate on a cold day. Cold in a way that almost seems familiar, but misses the smell of oil and wet fur, the clicking of claws against wood floors. Crinkling silver paper and his forehead rests against the window, white splinters melting on his fingertips and the sound of rain against his ear, pressed to cool glass.

Sometimes he looses time, still, and comes to with a wet mouth, wet hands, and he has to close his eyes as he washes up because he doesn't want to know whether it'd be blood or tears, or just his imagination playing tricks on him. 

Hannibal is like smoke, appearing behind Will in a way that makes him wonder if he’s been here all this time, if he brought Will into the bathroom, if he helped him wipe his face clean.  
Hannibal is languid, like a snake, steading him and holding Will so he’s looking in the mirror, arm tightening as Will flinches and twists, gaze flickering over himself, over Hannibal, who is quiet words in his ears and warm hands on his chest and cool sheets under his cheek. Will likes to think that this is good, the warmth, the pleasure sparking red-hot behind closed lids, wet breath on his lips, but they kiss, and Will tastes white chocolate. The room starts spinning, he feels like he’s drowning, sweaty hands slipping on warm shoulders, teeth on his pulse point and he’s encircled again by limbs that grip him tightly and it’s still good, fire in his veins, back arching and again the world is moving around him, sheets like waves as his head almost knocks against the headboard, white cotton curling around his feet and he’s 

He’s almost certain that he’s crying

 

A little while back, somewhere in the grey ocean of a sky, with the sounds of organ music filling his head with fever-bright intensity, he finally felt the first traces of fear again, which is good. Fear means he's not dying, but it means pain, and screams, and the cold panic whenever he looks over at the driver's seat. Sometimes he thinks he sees Hannibal's skin peeling back and there's liquid blackness underneath, but he quickly turns back before Hannibal looks at him. The darkness in his eyes is more terrifying than the monstrous black under his skin. 

When the fear comes, Will stops touching Hannibal. Because the thought that someone like that has warm hands, a beating heart, it makes Will want to claw at the wall and scream and scream and scream and sc r ea m

Maybe, once upon a time, Will saw the blackness and thought it was the absence of light. And that one could bring light into those eyes, into that mind, that heart. But now, with sweat slicking the window under his forehead, eyes on the endless road, ears ringing, he knows it's not the absence of light. It's a void, it's a gaping maw, it's a candlesnuffer. 

His throat feels raw 

He looks out of the window and thinks of Italy, the hot streets, Hannibal in Venice, homemade lasagna

 

He wants to go home

 

His teeth hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. It's been about 7 years that I've posted anything I've written, and the first time that I've posted something in English. Should you find spelling or grammar mistakes, I would really appreciate it if you told me. Again, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. And if you hated it, please consider telling me why? I've never been very secure in my writing and I'd appreciate constructive criticism so I can improve. (Also there's obviously no way one could road trip from the US to Italy)


End file.
